Hannibal is sick
by KatofDresden
Summary: Sickfic! Hannibal Lecter's body is a temple of perfection. So what happens when something stops working properly? A series of oneshots of Hannibal being sick or injured. Just because.
1. Food poisoning

He simply could not say no to the man after he'd obviously made an effort. Couldn't deny him. When you are in someone else's house one can't simply say no to home-made food when the cook is present. It is simply terribly rude.

So Hannibal had just sat on his chair, there on Will's table and accepted the food with a small smile and much gratitude. After eating, he had even complimented Graham's (obviously lacking) culinary skills. He ate everything politely while chatting with Will, partly to distract himself from the terrible food. Eating everything so perfectly cooked everyday made you notice the flaws in everyone else's food much clearly. And hate them. But Will was looking at him with puppy blue eyes and he had to pretend that he liked it. And he was nothing if not a good actor.

Will had invited the doctor after a very long day in the field in which the psychiatrist had been especially helpful. Besides, he'd eaten food prepared by Lecter (all exquisite meals since that first day when he brought breakfast to his house) and he wanted to return the favor somehow. Not that anything he did could be compared to the meals that Lecter, _chef extraordinaire, _had prepared but it was the gesture that counted, right?

When they arrived home Will left his guest with the dogs and went to the kitchen, where he found with horror that he had almost no food to make a proper dinner. Yes, he could always call a restaurant and order something, but then the gesture would be lost. He wanted to do something nice for the man, something special that said thank you. And food was perfect because A) Lecter loved it B) you didn't have to say embarrassing words or make much eye contact. It was a social thing without having to be social. No, he'd have to do something with what he had at home.

A while later, Will emerged from the kitchen with several dishes. One could see in his eyes how proud he was of that disaster. Hannibal did his best to smile too, despite himself. There was a _salad_ that consisted mainly in olives, sweet corn and pieces of carrots with a very vinegar-y dressing. Sadly, that was the best part of dinner. Then there were overcooked chicken fillet drowned in tomato sauce (from a can found by miracle in one of the cupboards of the kitchen) and an ice cream cake that had been sitting on his refrigerator for a while. After serving it, Will realized that the cake had been there forever and he hadn't checked the expiration date. But frozen stuff doesn't go off, right?

Will had been terribly insecure about the dinner but Lecter had eaten everything as if it were good and even complemented him on the dinner.

"It was all delicious, Will. Thank you, again, for such a delightful evening."

"Glad you like it. It –it was nothing."

"Next one in my place." Hannibal said, glad this culinary nightmare was over.

"Yeah, sure."

And so they said good-bye.

It wasn't even dawn when Hannibal woke up and barely had time to reach the bathroom before throwing up a big part of the dinner on the toilet. And then some more. And some more. He spent a while breathing heavily, too tired even to move, slumped on the bathroom floor with his head against the wall, eyes closed.

Hannibal was sweaty, his throat felt sore and his stomach was on fire.

Damn Will Graham.

Damn his politeness.

He hated being sick. To no end, he hated it.

It was undignified, it was inelegant, it was unhygienic, it was disgusting. And it prevented him from doing everything else, prevented him from living almost. As best as he could, he picked himself up from the bathroom floor and brushed his teeth. He saw himself in the mirror and saw he'd gone three or four shades paler. Great. Just great. Hoping to have expelled all evil and to be as good as new the next day, he went to bed. And found, to his dismay that he couldn't sleep thanks to his stomach jumping and turning and making him run to the toilet every now and then.

Why was this happening? This things shouldn't have to him.

He wanted it to be over, but time passed painfully slowly.

When morning came, he tried to get up, go to the shower, prepare for the day – but the room started spinning and he barely made to the living room. He fell on the couch unceremoniously and held his stomach. This was not him. He was graceful and elegant and sophisticated and he… had to go and throw up. Again. His stomach was killing him.

Oh, how Hannibal hated that awful tomato sauce right now. And the cake. He only wanted to go back in time and see the food melt in a roar of fire and smoke. How could such insignificant things cause such great damage? He hated them. How could something as wonderful as food become so vile? He tried to distract himself with books, with music but couldn't concentrate on anything.

He was just there, thrown in the couch dressed only in his very expensive silk pajamas, wishing he didn't have internal organs. After a while he gathered enough strength to get a blanket to cover himself. Some moments he was cold, others he felt on fire. And he couldn't even keep a glass of water down.

For the first time in a long while, he heated himself.

And his body, that stupid body that refused to work properly.

He canceled his patients of the day (with a horrible voice) and called Crawford too, to warn him that he was indisposed and wouldn't be able to provide much help that day and probably the next one. Then he went back to wallowing in his misery on his couch.

Life felt terrible.

The hours came and went and Hannibal tried to sleep.

He had a nightmare and then went to the bathroom. Again.

When he was already getting ready to slowly go back to dying in his couch again, there was a knock on the door. Well, he wasn't in the mood for anyone. But whoever it was , they were insistent. Very insistent.

So Hannibal went to open the door.

It was Will, looking scruffy as usual but more apologetic than ever.

"Hey, can I come in?"

Hannibal wasn't loving the idea of having someone see him like this but didn't have any idea of how to kick out Graham in a nice way. In any way, really. Not his best thinking day. He opened the door and went back to his couch and his blanket. The world was so cold outside.

"So, Will, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I heard that you were sick. Figured it was probably my fault because some of the food had been opened for ages and… I'm sorry, really."

Will couldn't even look at the man. Elegant composed Dr. Lecter looked nothing like himself. He was terribly pale, sweaty hair was plastered to his forehead, a hand clutching his stomach and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The eyes were strangely shiny, which contrasted with the paleness his skin had gotten. _Way to go, Will. You invite the man for dinner and nearly kill him. _

"How come you're not sick?" They had eaten the same things, shouldn't Graham be suffering with him instead looking so damn healthy?

"I guess my body is more used to food in bad condition. I'm sorry, honestly, I should have been more careful."

"Do not beat yourself up about it, Will. We all make mistakes."

And suddenly, he didn't feel so bad.

The next couple of hours Will tried to make it up to Hannibal for poisoning him. He made tea. He brought some more blankets and a cold wet hand towel for Lecter's forehead. He apologized frequently and intensely, specially after Hannibal's visits to the bathroom. Then the psychiatrist asked him to sit with him and distract him for a bit and Will complied. He talked about the last case, about people they both knew like Crawford and Alana, he talked until the doctor, utterly exhausted, fell asleep in that very sofa. His head fell on Will's shoulder and for once Will didn't mind the human contact.

As he heard the labored breathing of the man, Will felt a bit less bad about poisoning the man.

And Hannibal felt a bit less bad about being sick.


	2. Cough

It was insistent, it was persistent and it was thoroughly annoying.

It interrupted things, it interrupted people while they were talking. It was involuntary and unwelcome. It made him rude, annoying and irritating. All the things he'd never want to be. All the things he despised on a person.

Hannibal had had a dry cough since a couple of weeks prior, after a particularly cold day they spent in the field. They were following the footsteps of a killer who targeted people with mental illnesses and left poems at each scenes. So Hannibal's work was now double: to control and help focus a specially troubled Will who could empathize with both the killer and the victims (seeing as his mental health wasn't perfect, far from it) and also to use his wide psychiatric knowledge to try to interpret the poems. It was complicated and confusing (probably the killer too was afflicted by some mental condition, which didn't make things easy) and they didn't get too far. But they spent hours there. In the cold.

At first it was just an occasional issue. He only coughed every now and then, four, five times a day. He couldn't get rid of it but it wasn't a great bother. Harmless. Hannibal could live with that. It annoyed him a bit but it wasn't a matter of great importance. There were more serious matters, like the now called _asylum killer. _Sometimes the doctor could even suppress the coughs when he was with a patient or talking with the others. He couldn't get rid of it, but it didn't interfere with his life much.

At first.

Since he couldn't get rid of the damned cough, he brought a crystal jar and some glasses to the consult, to keep at hand. He also put some water into a hipflask that he wore in one of the internal pockets of his jackets. He worried about looking like an alcoholic a bit, but those plastic water bottles were just too tasteless. Water was the only thing that calmed his throat a bit. That terrible sensation of dryness. Of not being able to draw breath. Most unnerving. People didn't seem to mind much.

At first.

As the days went by the cough got worse and Hannibal tried by all means to get rid of it. He drank tea – several kinds of it, in fact, but the relief it provided was only ephemeral and soon he found himself coughing again. He used scarves and neckerchief, even resorted to those damned cough syrups although he knew they had low effectiveness. But nothing. The medicines were as useless as the rest of the _solutions _he tried.

And it was starting to interfere with his life. As it increased in frequency, he found himself stopping while he cooked, while he took notes, while he went somewhere simply to be able to catch his breath again. His throat hurt. Excessively so.

Bloom was one of the first to mention it. She had noticed it some days before, and became concerned when she heard that the cough, something so strange in the always collected, elegant and basically externally perfect man had not disappeared but increased.

"Have you seen anyone about that cough?"

"I doubt anybody could do more than I am doing already, but thanks for the concern."

"It's true then about doctors being the worst patients, huh? Just take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will."

When the days passed and the cough stubbornly refused to clear up Hannibal did indeed go to see a physician about it. The man concluded that it was most probably an infection and gave him some antibiotics.

They were as useless as the everything else had been.

It was worse at night. At first he'd just wake up coughing once or twice in the middle of the night. An unimportant problem, solved by a nice cool glass of water and then back to bed. No biggie. But it kept getting worse, and then worse. The cough didn't imply wake him at night – it prevented him from getting any sleep at all. Hannibal would just lay there in bed, tired and bored and plagued by that never-ending cough. Maybe he should have been worried. He wasn't. He was more annoyed than worried. He needed sleeping.

The nights became eternal, until that one night when he got no sleep at all. And he was angry, and tired and he had to go back to work and his throat was living hell. But they had a good lead on the _asylum killer _and Will was going to be there and apparently they needed him _now more than ever. _So he got a shower, a nice clean suit and a gallon of coffee to pass the day as best as he could. That day everybody noticed the cough and threw him many nasty looks because of it.

_It is called acute involuntary reflex_, he wanted to tell them, looking bad at him as if this was his fault, his doing. As if he could just stop it because he was bothering them. Didn't they think was bothering him as well? (Much more him, in fact). They could have some consideration. He had a horrible night and now was having a horrible day. Only Will had the grace to ask if he was feeling all right.

This killer was smart and he was playing them. And Hannibal was in no mood for games. It was another bad word from Crawford and the cops or the cops and he was out. It didn't take too long. And so he was back on his consult. Tired. Sleep-deprived. Cold. In pain.

He closed while he held on to the desk of his office.

He wasn't going to have to do something about this cough instead of just ignoring and hoping it would go away. Something more. Because this damn _involuntary reflex _was achieving something not even the most powerful people had done. It was defeating him.

And he was so, so very tired.

There was a knock on the door. Whoever it was, they would have to go.

He was just too tired. And that stupid cough refused to clear up.

He went to open the door and saw the most interesting of his patients standing there soaked, with what looked like coffee-to-go on both hands.

"Can I come in? It's pouring out there."

Hannibal motioned him to go inside while he coughed.

Will sat and held out one of the cups.

"It's hot milk and honey. It's what I used to have when I was sick, maybe it'll help you."

Hannibal clears his throat but his voice is still a bit too rough.

"That is very kind of you, Will. I wish I had a towel to offer you but I only have handkerchiefs" he says, and hands him a neatly folded one he had on one of the drawers of his desk.

"It's okay."

"So, Will, what brings you here?"

"Well, I was thinking about the scene and…"

Hannibal started coughing in an unstoppable manner, like never before. He tried to mutter a _Sorry _in the direction of Will (being sick didn't affect one's manners, after all) but could barely breathe. A coughing fit. The world seemed to disappear and there is only this horrible sensation of not being able to breathe. His eyes were watering. He held his chest and wheezed between coughs. His eyes hurt, his chest hurt, everything hurt and he just ouldn't breathe. This agony continued for two or three minutes that felt like years.

When the fit finally subsided, Will was there offering him a glass of water with an unsteady hand. Seeing Dr. Lecter like that had been a bit of a shock, to be honest. But he was kind of glad to know that the man was not invulnerable. That he was human, too. But he was worried for the man, he had to admit. Hannibal was a friend and he didn't like seeing friend suffer.

"You're sick. Let me take you home. We'll talk about the case when you're better."

"I appreciate that, Will." Hannibal said after a while with a (very) hoarse voice.

When they got home and Will left Hannibal turned off all phones and simply had his drink of milk and honey while listening to an opera.

Peace.

He didn't go to work the next day.

Or the one after that.

Will came by two days later, with another drink of milk and honey_, just to see how you were doing. _They talked.

The worst was past.

Hannibal didn't know why he got that cough or why it refused to go away, but he's better now.

And he's got the habit of making drinks of hot milk and honey whenever he's sick.

A/N: Reviews are most welcome. Requests welcome too!

Much love, Kat.


	3. Syncope

It was a warm Tuesday and they were arguing about a case (a particularly complex one) in the halls of the BAU. Will and Alana were arguing intensely while Hannibal just watched them and added an occasional comment. After a couple of minutes, Hannibal asked they went to a temporarily vacated office to continue the heated discussion so the wouldn't have everybody's eyes on them, a relatively small place with a desk and a chair in front of it – even a small couch on the other side of the room. They continued arguing, trying to be as civil as possible.

Will thought all the efforts the FBI was doing were wrong, and getting them further away from the killer instead of helping them closing in on him. He said this was just precisely was this killer wanted, this was his design. The search in the pool, the chlorine, the suspect. All of it was wrong, just a plan from the killer to distract them, divert the attention from him. Bloom repeated that there was evidence of this man's involvement, that the suspect was the man they were looking for, that he was seeing conspiration were there weren't any. The suspect had no alibi and a good motive. Hannibal had never seen them disagreeing like that.

Maybe he should interject, say something, and make an effort towards reconciliation. Maybe. But they both had compelling arguments and the heating of that office was making him uneasy. Not to mention how strangely light-headed he felt. It was probably nothing, so he simply continued listening to the discussion.

He was about to interject something supporting Will's argument when the world started becoming strange. He was oddly dizzy and could see Will and Alana in front of him, but their features were becoming blurred, unclear, faded. They were there, but they were no longer there. Just as he was. What a strange sensation. And it was just too hot in that damned room. The desks, the chairs, even the walls seemed to be losing definition. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, see things better.

Hannibal could hear the voices of Will and Alana in the background, fading out. But why were they in the background? Weren't they just in front of him? Then why were they so far away?

Before he could begin understanding these confusing thoughts, the room started spinning around him dangerously and he tried to go some place for support, but didn't make it. He heard his name in the distance. He felt nauseated. The world disappeared.

There was darkness.

And he lost control.

* * *

Alana was angry about this case, she'd had a bad day and now Will was hell-bent on denying the obvious and making them stay extra-long. He was seeing things that weren't there, theories about super complex framing that simply didn't make a lick of sense to her. Will, on the other hand, could see everything clearly: how this man had manipulated evidence, done everything on moments were he knew this other man was alone. The suspect they had on custody was as much a victim of this as were the people in the morgue. More than that, he was the intended victim. And that was why he had to prove Bloom wrong, because they were just falling into the killer's trap. Doing exactly what he wanted. And it was making him angry.

Maybe it was the oppressive atmosphere of the room, too. Whoever worked there had the heating turned on badly.

"Accept it, Will. This man is guilty: he wanted to kill those girls and he did it. We have the tools he did it with, we have the times, we have evidence and we have him on all the crime scenes." Alana said, bored and tired.

"Can't you see it? It's just too clean, they put it in there!"

Will then remembered they were not alone in the room.

"What do you think, Dr. Lecter?"

Nothing.

"Dr. Lecter?"

Both of them looked at the man in time to see his eyes close and the man himself, the strong elegant and smart Hannibal Lecter falling to the floor unceremoniously. Alana breathed an "_oh my god_" while Will hurried and was able to stop his fall a bit before the psychiatrist's head hit the floor and laid it as gently as he could on the floor.

"Dr. Lecter?"

The doctor was on the floor, unconscious, arms spread to the sides. Lifeless. Will realized he had never seen the doctor looking so pale. Alana was there in seconds, kneeling in the floor next to her fallen friend and mentor.

"Hannibal? Can you hear me?"

There was no answer.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Asked Will, concerned.

He didn't like Hannibal's pallor. Or the fact that he had fallen on the floor unconscious. This man was his anchor. And he had ignored him all day.

"Let's just give him a minute. It was probably this heat, nothing else. Just… help me move him to that couch, ok?"

The next minutes , the fight completely forgotten, they focused on tending to the unconscious – in perfect harmony. They laid him on the couch and elevated slightly the legs, just as instructed in many first aid classes. Alana eased the man's tie and undid the first button his shirt so he could breathe more easily. She also took the silk handkerchief from Lecter's jacket pocket and soaked it in water. She'd taken it from a bottle she had retrieved from her bag and put it on the man's forehead to ease the heat a bit. She also opened the door and the window so more air could come in. Now they could only wait.

After putting Hannibal on the couch, Will had simply watched how Bloom worked. He didn't like this. Hannibal was lifeless, unmoving, pale – exactly like the dead bodies they visited. He could see him as the victim of a killer. Stabbed, shot, strangled. Dead. The things that were different, his imagination made similar. One of the doctor's arms had fallen to the side. It was grotesque. A responsive Hannibal would never carry his limbs like that. And why did he have to look so pale? How come he hadn't noticed it before?

Will simply couldn't deal with this. It was too much.

_He's just unconscious, _he tells himself, _it's just a fainting spell._

Alana had noticed the way Will was looking.

"Don't worry, he'll be okay." She said, getting up and going towards Will. He looked anxious and uneasy. "You care about him, don't you?"

Alana's tone was soothing and calm and Will liked it. But Hannibal was still unresponsive.

"I… just… sometimes I hate the man and how he plays with my mind, you know? But he helps, and he is there through all of this horror and he helps me recognize thoughts and emotions.. .Help me sort out my head, sometimes even thoughts I didn't know were there. And here's there to talk about other things, too, and I just… It's being too long, isn't it? We should call someone, he's not waking up."

"Wasn't Dr. Keyes visiting?" Alana remembered. Dr. Keyes is a surgeon turned coroner, a bit of a star in the academic circles and she'd seen him in around the halls. " And I'm sure there's plenty of doctors around. Just wait here, I'll get one to take a look at him."

She went and left Will pacing around the couch with the unconscious doctor. He couldn't lose Lecter too. He just couldn't.

When Hannibal opened his eyes (which was strange, since he didn't remember closing them) he was not in front of Will and Alana as he'd been. In fact, he wasn't even standing. Lazily, he took that compress from his forehead and tried to get on a sitting position, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Easy there...you've been out for over three minutes." Will's voice said.

"I was?"

Right now, everything was a bit confusing for Hannibal.

"Yeah, you fainted. Bloom has gone to find a doctor, you just sit there, don't move around much."

Will breathed, relieved. Hannibal was awake and apparently okay. One less thing to deal with.

"Next time give us a heads up or something, okay?" Will commented, trying to let the anxiety out. "Alana almost screamed."

Hannibal finally sat, even if he still felt quite light-headed and tried to focus on Will.

"I apologize. But this is not something I have the habit of doing, I assure you."

A couple of minutes later Alana came back with a doctor who gave the psychiatrist a small check up. Nothing seems to be wrong. Lecter insisted he was fine and that it was just the heat of the room combined with exhaustion from a long day, but he still looked too pale for both Will and Alana.

The case and their disagreement completely forgotten, they went with Hannibal to the parking lot and insisted on taking him home. They even went with him to his door, where Alana gave him a long hug. Because in all the time she'd known him she'd never seen Hannibal so vulnerable and she wanted to, making him know she was there. And he still looked a bit out of it.

"Next time, if you're not feeling okay, tell us, will you? And take care of yourself, all right? We don't want that to happen again."

Hannibal nods and waves her goodbye.

When Will is about to do the same, he notes the doctor's hands faltering a bit and how he is leaning on the door for support. It's been a couple of hours since he passed out, but he was still feeling a bit woozy.

A bit light-headed. A bit wrong.

"Need any help?"

"I am all right." He insists, because he doesn't want to worry Will in excess and he knew the

But Will is not happy until he sees the doctor safely inside.

"Is there something on your mind, Will?" Hannibal said when he saw the man just standing there, looking at him.

"I'm sorry we were too focused on our conversation and didn't see that you were unwell. We should have done something."

Hannibal wanted to interject something but Will stopped him before he did.

"It's just… you scared me. Dropping to the floor so violently. Like Alana said, don't do that again, ok?"

Hannibal managed a small smile, touched by the concern of the profiler.

"I will try."

Will went away and tried to forget about the incident, to no avail.

Deep down, he knows that the image of Hannibal Lecter pale and unconscious (so lifeless, so quiet) will haunt his dreams.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed ;)

Always looking forward to your reviews!


	4. Fever

That morning Dr. Lecter was not feeling so good.

His mind seemed to be foggy, the world confusing. There was a sensation of general malaise he couldn't shake off. He wanted to go back to bed but he knew he had to face the rest of the day. And he simply didn't want to. Everybody had limits, even him. There was a limit to all of it, all the cleanliness and perfection, all the elegance, all the perfectly arranged… well, everything. Perfectly arranged murders, perfectly arranged meals, perfectly arranged manipulation. Because he was a perfect man.

But that day he wasn't feeling perfect.

Part of him wished he was just like Will Graham and could wander about in his underwear and crawl back to a badly made bed. And even had stray dogs around.

That's how bad he felt.

But he had many things to do, things that could not be left behind for too long, and since he worked alone almost always, there was nobody in whom he could delegate. Not that he would delegate if there was someone, but still. He had to go and meet patients and do the indecent amount of paperwork running his own business meant. Without forgetting Will and Crawford and the BAU and everything on that end.

And he just felt so bad.

Nevertheless, he prepared himself as he usually did.

He had a lighter breakfast than usual, consisting only in coffee and orange juice, because he simply didn't think he could manage anything solid. The suit, the cologne, the perfectly combed hair. Yes, he had some uncomely shadows under his eyes and looked paler than usual but was looking still pretty good. Much better than he felt, no doubt.

And so he went to his consult, where he talked with very boring people until it was time to eat, but he didn't feel like eating anything (again) so he simply sat on his desk, with his head resting on the cold surface, taking in the cold, forgetting the rest of the world, listening to a concert of piano. He closed his eyes, trying to fight this feeling of unease, of alien cold, of generalized hurt. Trying to use the music as a medicine. No such luck.

He hadn't even realized the door wasn't properly closed.

Will knew he probably could do this by himself, go to the crime scene, figure out the causes, the way of thinking of the man who'd done this… But he wasn't up to doing it. At least, not alone. He'd rather have the presence of someone who could bring him back if he got too close, or too far. That someone, someone who knew his darkest corners and was not shocked by them, was Hannibal Lecter. So he asked Crawford to bring the man but he was not answering his calls. Then, Will decided to go directly to the consult to retrieve the man. But he did not expect to the find him like he did.

The door of the consult was half open and there was music inside, so he knew there was someone there. Will expected to find the good Doctor standing elegantly in one of his suits, or maybe sat uptight in his desk chair, going through some documents. But he wasn't.

When Will came in he found Dr. Lecter slumped on his desk, head against the wood, eyes closed, hands moving with the rhythm of the piano that was playing. He'd never seen the man looking like that, so…. Not perfect. But it was a nice image in a way, showed Will that the column that was his psychiatrist was also human. After a minute of silent watching Will finally cleared his throat to make his presence known.

The Doctor was back to his composed self in a matter of seconds.

"Will? I was not expecting you. Is something amiss?"

"No, it's just that Crawford wants me at a crime scene and I was hoping… maybe you could come too? If you don't have patients or anything."

"As it happens, I was going to devout this evening to paperwork, so I could indeed come with you."

And maybe going away for a while, being on the field and being presented with a new would distract him from how shitty he was feeling. Because it hadn't got better – only worse. He said nothing of this to Will, of course, it was a matter of little importance and Will was troubled enough as it was. He was going to face demons out there in the fields, Hannibal doubted he'd concerned about how he felt. Will drove and Hannibal almost fell asleep on the way, despite himself.

When they got out of the car, he felt strangely cold. And kept feeling that way while they were on the scene. Cold and unable to properly focus. His head hurt. His joints ached. He made some very obvious observations and responded when Will or Crawford asked something. But he just wasn't so into it.

It was a mid-evening when he started feeling even worse.

"…and…"said Will's voice. He wasn't even listening anymore. "Dr. Lecter? Hello?"

"Sorry. You were saying something?"

"Are you all right? You're looking quite pale there."

Now not only he was feeling like shit, he was looking like that, too. Great. Just great.

"Yes, yes, I am merely a bit cold."

"Cold?"

It was not too cold that evening. Comparing with the past weeks, this day had been exceptionally warm. And that was when he understood what combined the paleness and the cold feeling, maybe even explain a bit his odd behavior from before. Without thinking too much about it, he placed his hand on the Doctor's forehead.

"Gosh, you're burning up."

"Am I?"

He didn't feel like that. Not one bit.

"Jack, do you need us anymore?" Will shouted. It's been an ugly day and this is an excuse as good as any to go back home again. Forget about the monsters.

"What's the hurry?"

"Dr. Lecter's sick. I'm going to drive him home."

Hannibal didn't complain. The idea of going home seemed the best option at the moment. And he was happy Will is driving him, because he was feeling a tad too sleepy to drive safely. Once they were in the car, Graham informed him he was taking him to his house.

"It's much closer and I know the way much better, so I thought it would be… be better, you know. If you don't mind, of course. And that way I can be around to help.. or something… You really shouldn't be alone with that fever. "

Hannibal cracked a half smile.

"I assure I can take care of myself, Will. But it would rude of me not to accept such a kind offer of hospitality, wouldn't it? I will go, thank you, Will."

Will nodded, relatively happy. He felt a bit bad for dragging the psychiatrist to a crime scene when he was obviously quite sick. This way, he could make up for him a bit. Hannibal fell asleep in the ride, and Will could hear the psychiatrist's head banging against the glass window with each bump. Looking most unlike himself the usually so in-control doctor.

When they arrived Will instructed the groggy doctor where to sit on his couch (the bed had a terrible smell of sweat, he should probably change the sheets) and went to make some soup and look for some comfy clothes for the sick man. Trying to be a good host. Possibly failing.

They ate the soup as if they were some old friends, they even discussed the weather.

The dogs were surprisingly fond of Hannibal.

Will later handed his an oversized merchandising white tee and some pyjama bottoms.

"I know it's not your usual style, but you'll be more comfortable."

"Thank you, Will. Just do not tell anyone I wore these, all right?"

After having changed the sheets, Hannibal lay in the bed and it felt like heaven. True heaven.

Will insisted on taking his temperature and worried that he should a call medical help when the thermometer read 102,3. It was higher than he'd anticipated. But Hannibal told him he just needed some rest and Will let him sleep.

Some hours later, unable to sleep, Will went back to the room where his guest was in an uneasy feverish slumber. It had been very long since the last time he had some time over at his house.

Not exactly a bad sensation.

The next morning Hannibal was still too warm, still feeling like shit and Will decided it was his turn to play doctor. He put cold rags on Hannibal's forehead. Made more soup. Entertained him when he was bored. They figured it was just probably an infection – nothing too important, seeing how the fever never reached dangerous levels. Will became also a kind of secretary and cancelled or postponed the doctor's appointments, talked with whoever he had to talk.

When Hannibal got a bit better, they played chess.

Part of Will wanted to stay like that forever, wanted the doctor to be sick forever so he'd have him always around.

But eventually he got better and left, not before thanking Will intensely for his help. Told him he would put together a feast to thank him.

Will decided he would check on the doctor's health more often from then on.

Just to see if he could help.

A/N: If not specified otherwise, imagine this stuff happens about the middle of season one, around the Budge incident or something like that.

I'm waiting to hear from you!

Did you like this chapter?


	5. Allergy

They had to have cats.

Of all the animals that at some point in the history of humanity have become pets, these morons had to choose cats.

The Kendalls were a killer couple, an annoyingly young couple, in whose house seven bodies had appeared, butchered. The Kendalls had been missing since the murders were reported, and everybody suspected their involvement. Apparently, they came in late at night with sports bags that were apparently very heavy and neighbors had seen "very drunk friends" who came in, but never out. Honestly, the only mystery that remained was how they even lasted that long killing and butchering people.

Unfortunately, the couple was now missing and the care they lacked in their murdering they had put in their escape. No one knew where they could have gone, how they had escaped, if there was any in which they could be stopped. To get inside their mind they had called Will Graham, taken him to the last place they had been – their home no less, the place where they kept their life. So Will was there. And to try to reduce the crazy in Will, Hannibal was there too.

But he regretted having gone there the second he entered.

"They had a cat. The house owners." He stated bitterly.

"Three cats, actually." Clarified Jack Crawford. "That's quite a smell you have going on there, Dr. Lecter."

"It's not smell. I am allergic to cats and its fur and this place is covered in it."

Hannibal hated cat fur almost as much as he hated rudeness. In fact, he had decided cat fur was very rude. It was everywhere and no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it, the damn thing was on everything, on the floors, on the sofas, on his very expensive suit. It irritated him, literally and figuratively. It irritated his mind like it did his throat. It was disgusting, not to mention unhygienic. He was going to leave the place with elegance before his whole being became a festival of sneezes, minimize the damage to his person as much as possible. But then Will gave him one of his lost puppy looks, elevating the sad element to its maximum expression and adding a certain something to the expression that clearly meant "_don't leave me alone with the bad cops" _and he gave in, decided to stay a bit more.

He went through the different rooms with Will while they discussed the couple's psyche and the leads it could give. They were trying to identify places where they could have gone after their feast of bodies and crime. There were many options, all of them very possible. But they had to narrow it down – they had to decide on something or else these two sadists could repeat their feast in some other town and flee again and there just wasn't time because…. And then, while he was thinking these thoughts in the main bedroom of that place, Will heard something he never thought he would ever hear.

It took him a while to decipher what the noise he heard had been, but he eventually got it.

He had just heard the elegant empowered and always discreet Hannibal Lecter… sneezing.

It was an elegant sneeze, of course. Low, controlled, quite soft. Like the sound of a speeding car passing very quickly, but from a distance.

_Ashoooooooo_

Almost imperceptible. The kind of sneeze that everyone would choose if there was a _sneeze-election_. Cool, soft, low. It was really something. Just as Will was getting over the shock of it, the psychiatrist sneezed again. And then again.

"You okay there?"

Will asked, seeing with awe that the Doctor seemed to be just as composed as always.

"Yes. Don't fret, a small allergy will not defeat me, Will. Shall we continue?"

Hannibal wanted to continue because he wanted to get out of that place, immediately. He could feel the itch in his throat and how his nose and larynx seemed to be on fire. And it was only getting worse as time passed. But he'd decided to stay and help out, and it would be very unmannerly of him to simply go in the middle of the investigation. No, he would stay while he was needed, but he was hoping to shorten that time as much as he could.

But the damn house was filled with contradicting evidence and the inspection stretched out in time.

As time went by, Hannibal felt his face burn and itch, the sneezes increase and a very graceless snot kept trying to go down as he stopped it with his handkerchief. His throat burned. His eyes burned. But there he remained, professional, composed, still standing. Until he wasn't anymore.

The sneezing had become a point where it was difficult to even breathe, his eyes were red and swollen and there tears falling down on them, despite himself. It had become too much. He could barely hear the rest of the people over his own unease any longer. It had changed from nuisance to full on problem. So he apologized and told everyone he needed some fresh air and got out of that dirty hell of dust and cat hair. It was incredible, how such a small thing could have that effect on him. He had defeated serial killers with his own hands, but cat hair rendered him breathless.

When he got out, the world felt better. Hannibal enjoyed the winter weather deeply, breathed the allergen-free air. He was still sneezy and his eyes were still watery, but at least it wasn't getting worse. He sat on a bench near the entrance of the house and just breathed. Oh, what a luxury it could be. Not caring who saw him, he let the allergy-produced tears ran through his face, freely. He hated not being in control. Hated being this vulnerable. He spent some time like that, simply thinking and sneezing occasionally.

But then someone came out of the house and he carefully wiped his face.

Will got out as soon as they got a lead, not even saying anything to the others. The atmosphere was really quite oppressive back there and it was a bit overwhelming putting oneself on the place of two extreme sadists. That was when he saw Dr. Lecter on a bench near the entrance, cleaning his face. Maybe a conversation with the man would ease his spirit. As he got closer, Will saw that the psychiatrist's eyes were still red and moist, and that he didn't breathe normally. That allergy sure had got him. He looked most unlike himself with that swollen face, and there was a sad air about him.

After sitting in the bench, Will tried to say something funny to lighten the mood.

"Well, aren't you happy that I'm a dog person?"

It was awkward, it was out of place and it wasn't too appropriate or sensitive. It was Will.

Hannibal smiled while he wiped his eyes for the umpteenth time.

"Exceedingly so, Will."

They were in silence for a while. Hannibal sneezed and coughed trying the get all the terrible material out of him, but the thing clung like a disease. Will was looking at him at him with a kind of _I'm sorry _look mixed with concern and uncertainty. A true poem.

"Did you get any leads?"

"Yes, we think they got a train. And they're travelling with three cats, they shouldn't be too difficult to spot."

Hannibal thought a bit about what he would do to the cats if they were here. The thought was terribly soothing. And then he sneezed again and all his composure and regained pride were lost. Such a dreadful day.

"So…" started Will, trying to establish some eye contact with the older man and failing miserably. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying there even if you had the allergy of the century" Will said awkwardly. He wasn't good at feeling and gratitude was one of them. "I know you were there mainly for me and I… I appreciate the effort."

"You are very welcome, Will."

Hannibal's eyes were still shining from unshed tears and that combined with the red nose and the smile gave him an eerily innocent appearance. Will decided he would store the mental image for future reference.

Or for his own enjoyment.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for all the lovely feedback so far!

As usual, I am eagerly awaiting your comments, thoughts, opinions… On this installment and on the rest!


	6. The drowning incident

Will curses himself while he tries to stop crying, but the silent tears keep falling down his cheeks.

He should have known. That was why he was here, to know things, to see things the rest of them couldn't. But he'd seen details and not the most important thing of all. He should have known the man would still be hiding, should have known he couldn't far from his sanctuary for too long. Even the way he had disposed of the bodies had been quick and sloppy for that reason, to avoid a prolonged absence. Much less if he felt the integrity of the place could be in danger, what with cops running around the house. Will should have known all of this, all that seemed clear as day now.

He'd been stupid thinking that the man had left because he knew the police were closing in on him, should have known he'd have a hiding place, there in the house and was lurking in the shadows. But had thought they were alone. The police officers had obviously not seen the man's hiding place and told him there was nobody there. And he believed them, he'd been blind. Will simply hadn't paid enough attention, had not seen the details, had made wrong assumptions.

He didn't get in this man's head as he usually did, was distracted by everything in his life, all his problems and good days, the dogs, Alana, Abigail, the many murders and trying not to get too close. He'd been too distracted to notice.

And now Hannibal was paying the consequences. Dearly.

They had been going after a man who drowned his victim and then threw them in water reservoirs or nearby lakes. Some of them had passed as accidents, mere drowning of people who were too careless, or too drunk. But then one of the victim's family had requested an autopsy and they realized the water was not the same. For some reason, this man only killed on his own house, in his own bathtub. Sometimes he drugged and then drowned them, sometimes first he knocked the victim unconscious and then submerged them in the water. It was like a ritual that could only happen in his bathroom.

Jack Crawford had been outside, talking with some boss from the government so it was just Will and Hannibal in the man's house. Will had been deep in thought in the main bathroom, trying to figure what was so special about the place. Something was off, he knew that but he couldn't put his fingers on what it was. While Graham was deep in thought, Hannibal took a look around the house, went upstairs to see if he could find something interesting.

There was another bathroom on the upper floor, a bathroom that smelled like death and blood mixed with lavender and strawberry. It was slightly disturbing how both things were mixed in the air. He hadn't seen the man, hadn't heard him. All his very good reflexes had failed him. Hannibal didn't realize he wasn't alone on the room until it was almost too late. Maybe he was distracted too.

The drowner hadn't had any intention of going out of his hiding place until he heard the door of his sanctuary open up. He knew the sound the door made by heart. And knew he had to act, quickly and as silently as possible. No one could go in there and live to get out but him. No one could see the marks, see it, smell it. So when the man in the dark suit got in there, he sealed his fate.

Years of drowning had made him perfect his technique until he was a master. They never got away. This man was no exception. The drowner sneaked up behind Hannibal and bashed his head with the marble of the tub, rendering him almost senseless.

Hannibal didn't understand what was happening. One moment he'd been watching the bathroom and the next he was on floor and his vision was blurry. Sometimes he closed his eyes and things had moved. He passed out and awoke briefly several times. He could hear water running on the background but couldn't quite understand what that meant. The drowner looked at his work, satisfied. This one was a big guy, but he had gone down just like countless others. While the drowner prepared a silent bath for his new victim.

Hannibal tried to get up but couldn't. Everything was blurred, everything was spinning. And suddenly someone took him roughly by the neck and his head was plunged into the water.

Will thought he had heard something strange, like a bump and then water running. Maybe it was just another hallucination, his mind finally going crazy. Or maybe it was Dr. Lecter, washing his hands or something. Maybe he'd go up, just to check, to make sure everything was all right. But when reached the upper floor and found where the noise was coming from, he was shocked to the core. There was a man on his back holding Lecter's head down on the tub. And the doctor wasn't moving. There were bloodstains on the tub.

Without much thinking, Will shot the man and the drowner instantly collapsed. Will rushed to take Hannibal out of the water but the man was unconscious and no longer breathing. This man, a psychiatrist and a friend and he was not breathing and he was dying and Will had been there, only meters away while the drowner viciously attacked Lecter and he hadn't heard it and…

After a couple of seconds of freaking out Will decided he had to do something and started CPR the best he could. He was no expert and felt he was doing everything the wrong way but he had to at least try. Every second that passed without breathing Hannibal was closer to death and Will knew this. So he kept on trying. Trying to breathe some life into the man's lungs, trying to get him back.

"Breathe! Goddamnit! Breathe!"

But nothing happened. Will kept at it, getting increasingly desperate.

"Don't you die on me!"

His eyes were stinging, he could feel the tears forming.

"No, please, no…"

But the there was some sound, a choking sound and he was alive again. Hannibal felt an enormous force in his chest and he was spewing water. Choking on water. Coughing water.

Will was smiling, almost grinning with relief. He'd got him back. He'd got him back. Hannibal still had a nasty gash on his forehead and was pale and soaked but he was there, eyes open, breathing. It was enough. It was more than enough.

And then Hannibal was retching lavender scented water and Will realized all the mistakes he'd done when going after this man. And he felt guilty, oh so guilty. So he just went to the bloodied, wet and recovering Doctor Lecter, and put his arms around the man. He embraced him because he was not dead, neither of them were dead and everything was good. Everything would be good again.

Hannibal was still coughing and very shaken but the contact comforted him.

They stayed like that for a while in the bathroom of a serial killer who was bleeding out.

It had been so close. So close to death.

After Crawford appeared and called an ambulance. The doctors admitted Hannibal, stitched up the cut on his forehead and decided to keep him overnight, for observation. He slept all night in the hospital bed, tired, out of place, sore. His head hurt more than it should.

Will stayed with him.

He always did.


	7. The Tobias Budge incident (Beaten up)

It hadn't been an easy fight, far from it.

Tobias Budge had been quick, skilled, very motivated and a master in working with strings. He had known, same as Hannibal did, that if he didn't kill his opponent he would end up dead. That he had to kill to survive, that only one of them would be left, only one would get out of that room. And so he had fought with all he had, not a negligible amount of ability and bravery. There had been moments in the fight where Budge had the upper hand and Hannibal had feared for his life. But Budge's intent hadn't been enough, but he had managed to beat Hannibal bloody. He'd done more damage than the psychiatrist would ever care to admit.

His office was a terrible mess and that hurt him, too. It was unsavoury, it was not nice, it was simply ugly. And he didn't tolerate ugly things in his consult. But he couldn't simply get up and clean it because this was a crime scene and police would expect to find it untouched. Also, his leg hurt like hell. Well, if he was to be honest he hurt all over, but his leg seemed to be the main problem. Yes, it hadn't cut anything major so the bleed was not important and it was only a small stab wound but god, did it hurt. It was like an explosion of hot white pain on the leg spreading up and down and getting much worse when he moved. That was why he remained motionless after he finally sat on his chair and found something to stop the bleeding. He called the police and simply waited, hurting.

On the room lay the bodies of Franklyn and Budge. Normally he would have started mentally making some notes of what to do with them… but not now. Now he simply hurt too much. Almost too much to think.

There was blood trickling down his split lip and he didn't care enough to clean it. After the rush of adrenaline from the fight he was suddenly feeling very tired. Besides, he was going to have to put up a show of being in shock and traumatized about what just happened. About seeing Budge kill Franklyn and then having to kill Tobias to save his own life. Terrible situation indeed. He would have to act sad, not all there.

The pain was going to help.

He'd focus on that.

By the time the authorities arrived Hannibal looked like the mess his office was.

As people came in Hannibal looked anxiously for any sign of Will Graham, but knew that he probably had been killed by now. Such a pity. Hannibal knew Will was going to become a problem – he was too smart for his own good and would finally figure him out. But right now, he was enjoying being with the man, talking to him, and getting to know him better. To see what made him tick. But he was not coming and Hannibal was getting strangely sad, apart from hurting. He'd known Budge was going to cause trouble, he just hadn't known how much.

Crawford came in.

And finally Graham too, looking worriedly to the wrecked office.

Will was a bit uncertain. It was obvious there had been a fight, a big one and Hannibal hadn't been able to take Budge down on the first go. He had never seen the man so hurt. His hair was not perfectly combed as usual but hanging, there was blood on his face and his eyes were shining strangely. When he talked he was not imposing as usual, but subdued, quieter than usual. Kind of sad.

Hannibal explained what had happened quietly and Will could see it wasn't easy for him.

Will looked at him, as if trying to figure him out. Trying to figure out how damaged he was. How hurt. If the tragedy in his own office had got to him like the ones he'd seen had affected him and his well-being. He tried to look at him and establish some eye contact but Hannibal was looking down, probably in a lot of pain. Will sighed, not looking forward to handling this.

He was awkward.

Hannibal was hurting, feeling every blow Budge had landed hurt. And that leg was giving him hell. After the rush ended, things were getting worse. He would have to admit that he'd been beaten up. But he would not do that while Will was there looking all guilty.

"I feel like I've dragged you into my world."

That was slightly funny, because Hannibal had been in that world for many many years.

"I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company."

Will smiled and Hannibal smiled back. A bit of niceness in the midst of pain and bruises and broken things. And broken people, too.

Will was a bit broken. Franklyn had not been all there, either. Budge had been very, very broken. And he almost shattered everyone with him. Crawford seemed to be suspicious but Hannibal had found a protector in Will, who helped him much more than he deserved. He stood there looking uncomfortable. There had been no design there. Just a quick execution of a patient and a fight to survive, won only scarcely by Doctor Lecter. And the mess. The mess that was all around and was obviously no one's design. Budge had been much cleaner and so was Lecter when he came to talk to him. This had just been chaos. Survival.

When Hannibal tried to get up after giving his statement, Will supported him and helped him as he limped towards the exit. It felt strange not being able to walk properly and every step hurt so much. He could have tried to be above it, act as if he was all right and simply walk off but it was too much. He would much rather give himself to the pain and slight anguish that were settling in, if only for a day. He was going to have bruises on his wrist, on his stomach everywhere the punches and kicks had landed. Cuts, abrasions, blue and purple bruising. He cringed anticipating it.

A shiver coursed through Hannibal as he remembered Tobias on him threatening him as he desperately tried to escape on his desk. Being so close to losing.

"Are you okay?" Will had asked, noticing the distressed expression on his psychiatrist. So unlike him.

"I will be." Lecter said and his voice was soft. His eyes seemed haunted. Will couldn't blame him, after what he'd seen and done. He doubted he'd be as whole as Lecter was in the same position.

They went together to Lecter's place, where they said good-bye. There weren't many words, or any physical contact. But they were there, and that was what mattered. That they remained standing despite the shit they surrounded themselves in. Will still felt a bit guilty about all of it. People around him always ended up hurting or leaving, one way or the other. Maybe it was because of him. This was one of the reasons why he preferred not being social, it made him think unhappy thoughts.

When Hannibal got home and saw himself in the mirror he couldn't recognize his own reflection. There was someone broken staring back at him, someone vulnerable and bloody. Someone who'd gave in to the pain.

Now it was time to pick up the pieces, become whole again.

And taste the victory.

A/N: You asked, and here it is. Hope you enjoyed!

Reviews are always very welcome.


	8. Migraine

He had felt it coming.

He had felt uncomfortable, felt a weird light-headedness, an unshakeable feeling of depression. And the pain gradually seeping through his skull. Hannibal wished he hadn't known what was coming. Wished he could think it was a simple _bad day_ or sleeping in a wrong posture. But he knew what was coming, because it was not the first time.

_Acute migraine. _

Nevertheless, he had to consider himself lucky. Other people had attacks every month, every week even. His were spaced in years, which had let him hide the condition from the rest of the world, sometimes even forget it himself. Forget the episodes even existed, forget they had affected him sometime before. But then it would come again, at the most unexpected time, when he had forgotten and when it was a very very bad moment. And left him utterly useless.

Usually, he had time to prepare himself, leave whatever he was doing and disconnect all phones in the house. Close all the blinds and simply cease existing. Stay perfectly still in complete darkness until it all passed. Nobody had to know. His little piece of hell remained private, his own.

But not this time. It had all happened too soon.

He was with a patient and had another one scheduled right after it when he started feeling… not so good. He hadn't recognized it, at first. He had just assumed it was a simple headache, didn't give it much importance. Sometimes boring patients could give him headaches. Sometimes they could be painfully dull. This was not the case. It was not kind Mrs. Dawson's fault that he felt like this.

So pained.

So nauseous.

But he thought he could handle it. He was in the middle of a session, he could try to at least exist until they finished. And the next patient was probably on his way there…. Hannibal knew the man lived far. Telling him to go away as he arrived seemed just brutal and not at all polite. He would try to handle him too. It was just an hour, after all. And he didn't have to move around much, or walk any stairs. Just listen to the man while sitting on a chair. He could do that. He could. _Just make it through this and don't cause a scene, Hannibal. Pain is in the mind. You can handle it. _

And he could. He was the little psychiatrist that could. But by the time he was finished with his patient he could barely stand up to see him to the door. He couldn't stand anything. Couldn't stand the lighting on the waiting room. His patient's voice as he said good bye. The sound of his footsteps. He hadn't even closed the door to avoid its sound. The pain was unbearable. Unlike other times when it only affected on side of his head, this time it was both. Bilateral pain – _must be my lucky day_, he thought bitterly. It was one of the few coherent thoughts he could muster. The rest was covered in pain.

He closed the curtains and the blinds. Threw the jacket on the floor, hoping being cooler might decrease the nausea somehow. He turned off every light and simply sat on the floor of his office eyes closed. The pain was excruciating and the nausea was only getting worse. The minutes passed in agony and even the sound of his breathing was bothering. Thank god he was in a relatively silent area. The thought of a busy building full of people made him sick. Hannibal spent almost an hour like that, sitting on the floor with his eyes closed.

And then there was the most horrible sound in the world, drilling his head like a… drill. Echoing all over the office, loud, too loud, the damned phone. He had forgotten to disconnect it and now someone was calling. Why on earth would they be calling? Couldn't they see he was in pain? He reached the desk and threw the phone to the ground, hoping it would stop its howling. But it didn't, because it was a damned wireless phone and it kept ringing and it was just too much. Hannibal tried to compose himself, see things more clearly. He reached to the fallen phone and took the battery out.

It had just been too much. The patients, the blinds, the phone, the battery falling on the floor.

He saw himself throwing up his lunch as if from a distance. The carpet would be ruined.

Looking sadly at the mess he made, Hannibal slowly took a bin for the next time this happened and crawled to the corner of the office. He sat there with his head against the wall and the eyes closed. Two lone tears rolled down his cheeks. He couldn't think, couldn't do anything. The pain was just too much.

Will didn't have an official appointment that evening but there were some details of that case that were appearing in his nightmares and it bothered him, so Hannibal had told him to go around the consult after he had finished with his patients, about nine. Of course, Hannibal had forgotten with the whole migraine ordeal. But Will hadn't.

When he arrived at the consult, he could instantly see that something was off. The door was open, for once, which was very odd. The lights were off, but Will couldn't believe Dr. Lecter would have left leaving his door open. He was much more careful than that. Something was wrong. He opened the door a bit and called Dr. Lecter's name. There was no answer.

Concerned, he got in a little more and saw the phone, dismantled on the floor, unmade. And the base was on the floor, too. He was starting to get worried about the psychiatrist's safety. What if someone had attacked him? He also saw Lecter's jacket thrown carelessly on the floor (something very had to happen for the psychiatrist to treat his clothes that way) and there was something next to it… Something kind of liquid but not totally… oh my god… Could it be...blood?

Will took out the gun he still had with him after being at a crime scene. He pointed out to the darkness, fearing Lecter's attacker might still be in there, hiding in the shadows.

"Dr. Lecter?" He called out, a hint of desperation in his tone.

_Sssshhhhh….. ssshhh_

Someone was hushing him. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw Hannibal slumped against the wall, eyes closed. He was very pale.

"Doctor?" He asked, kneeling in front of him. "Are you all right?"

Hannibal opened his eyes slowly and the image of a concerned Will Graham appeared in front of him.

"Forgot about you." He said, slowly. "Sorry."

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Migraine. Bad one."

Will gave him a sympathetic smile. Now having the lights off made sense, he could see what had happened. And then he understood what the puddle near the phone probably was. Gross. But he wasn't going to think about that. Hannibal had been helping him, but now it seemed it was the doctor who needed help. He would focus on that and lower his tone of voice to a whisper, so he wouldn't hurt the man even more.

"Wouldn't you prefer to be on your bed, somewhere more comfortable?"

Hannibal nodded, tired, closing his eyes again.

Normally, he would have cleaned the vomit, tidy up after the phone incident and not forgotten Will was coming. Normally, he would have waited for him standing and dismissed him politely. Normally, he would have elegantly declined his help and told him he could manage. Normally.

But now in that moment. There was only pain.

After a rollercoaster of horror, where even the smallest step was hell, the two men where on one of the bedrooms of Hannibal's house. Will shut the blinds and helped the doctor take the shoes and the vest off. Hannibal threw himself into the soft bed, but it was no comfort. The pain was still there, loud, intense, unavoidable. He closed his eyes fiercely whishing this was not happening.

Will usually carried some aspirin with him, and thought it could be useful. He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water for Hannibal and then he went back to the bedroom and left the medication and the water there, for the sick man.

"I left you some aspirin. Is there anything else you want me to do?" He whispered.

"Cancel tomorrow's patients… please. The schedule is in my office."

"Ok. I hope you don't mind, I put your cell in silent, here. If you need something else, you can text me, I think it will be silent enough."

Hannibal drew a small fleeting smile and Will left.

Calling a lot of strangers wasn't his idea of a fun evening, but he had to do it. Poor Doctor Lecter was going through hell, it was the least he could do to help. Some of the patients sent their best to Hannibal, others were very mean. He ended up hanging up on one of them.

That was he received a very short text on his phone.

_Help. _

Will ran.

He found Hannibal on the bathroom attached to the bedroom, sitting the floor. There were traces of vomit on the toilet.

"Will…could you clean up a little… please? I am feeling rather unable." His eyes were watery. It was heartbreaking.

"Sure."

After this little incident Will helped the man to the bed again and went downstairs to try to get some sleep. He knew there were guest bedrooms, but decided to sleep on the couch. Funnily enough, he had no nightmares that night.

The next morning Hannibal's migraine persisted, so Will left him alone in his darkness and disconnected the landline, just in case. Hannibal spent the day like that, sprawled on the bed with his face against the pillow so light couldn't get in.

Will took a walk around the area. It was nice. Peaceful. Silent.

On the evening the pain started to subside and Hannibal started feeling like a person again. A couple of hours later, he showered and prepared a light dinner for Will and himself. They talked, made sarcastic comments, analyzed. Hannibal was looking as his usual sharp self and Will was glad of that. As if nothing had happened.

But then, the next day Will got another text. Short but sweet.

_Thanks a million, Will. _

He didn't have nightmares that night either.

A/N: Longest one yet! Did you like it?

Also, there is a quote from a recent movie hidden in the text. You can tell me in the comments if you saw it ;)

Would love to hear your thoughts on this!


	9. Gunshot wounds

The blood was seeping on the floor, slowly but steadily and the crimson stain continued to grow larger.

And this time, it Dr. Hannibal Lecter's own blood the one that flowed on the consult floor.

Hannibal could barely keep his eyes open. Part of him wanted to simply let go, but another one feared that if he closed his eyes he might never open them again. He couldn't breathe very well through that gag and there still an aftertaste of chloroform lingering in his mouth. Vile. He couldn't that would be the last thing he ever tasted. So sad. He threw his head back in desperation until it got to the wall behind him. Hannibal knew the end was near.

His hands were tied behind his back, as were his ankles. He had struggled some time before, tried to break free. It was no use. And now he was too tired, too weak and hopeless to continue. He knew it was useless. Best to try and preserve his energy to keep living instead. Besides, there was not much he could do at this point, was there?

He'd been shot. Twice in the lower stomach, once in the left shoulder. It hurt so much.

The shooter had wanted to make him useless and he was succeeding. He had wanted to frustrate him, show him how powerless and pathetic he could be. The shooter had wanted to maximize Hannibal's agony, that was why none of the shots had been fatal. Because the shooter had wanted Hannibal to slowly bleed out on his own place, knowing he was dying and not being able to do anything about it. He was going to die and be found without his voice, his hands, his legs. Totally paralyzed. Totally annulled as a person.

And alone.

The pain was excruciating. The shots had been done in specific places so he wouldn't die too soon. Not without experiencing endless hours of pain first. Sometimes he passed out and then was suddenly awaken by the pain. There were tears running down his cheeks, despite himself. This couldn't be happening.

Nobody was going to find him. He didn't have patients until the next day… It would be too late by then. This was a terrible, ugly end.

But it was the end.

The pain was getting more intense.

He shut his eyes.

And said goodbye.

* * *

After the Budge incident, Jack had asked the local police to inform him if anything unusual happened in Lecter's place or involving the Doctor somehow. He wanted to get deeper into that story, into what happened that day on that consult, see if he could understand it better. He didn't think the Doctor was really involved, but it never hurt to be cautious, right?

So when the police had a report saying that weird noises had been heard there (_- could've been shots, or something else, I just never heard anything like that_) they informed Crawford immediately and he decided to go check it out. Will Graham was with him discussing some evidence, and decided to go with him, see what had happened. Crawford was glad. Lecter and Graham seemed to have a special bond, and it could help if the situation was not good.

While driving, Jack tried to lighten up the mood.

"I'm sure it was just a culinary experiment gone wrong, Will. Nothing to worry about."

But Will was worried. Hannibal could an attacker or a victim, and none of those options particularly appealed to him. He didn't want to have to deal with this too. It was hard enough just to handle himself. So the rest of the trip was silent.

Lecter's place was silent, as well. Eerily silent, excessively silent. No sign of anyone even being there. And the door was closed.

They knocked.

"Dr. Lecter?"

No one answered.

"Maybe he's not home." Jack offered. But that didn't seem right, because if Lecter was not there what had been that noise.

"There's something wrong. Open the door."

Will couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to find something awful behind that door. Maybe it was Lecter with a dead body and a manic smile. Maybe it was a bunch of animals running wild in the office. He didn't know. But it wasn't going to be good. Jack forced the door open and there was silence inside the consult too.

But not only silence.

"Oh, no…"

Good Dr. Lecter was on the far end of the consult, gagged, tied down, sitting in a pool of his own blood. He'd been shot three times and his head hung limply on the side. Will threw his gun and was at the man's side in seconds.

_Please be alive, please be alive, please be alive…._

Will checked the pulse. He was alive. Will breathed and told the news to Crawford.

"He's still alive!"

Crawford immediately called an ambulance with his best _this is extremely serious so hurry up _voice. Because it was a matter of life and death. Literally. Hannibal's life or death.

Will tried to stop the bleeding from the doctor's abdomen while trying to wake him up. He took out the handkerchief used as a gag and slapped the face as gently as he could.

"Hey, hey, doctor Lecter, can you hear me?"

The blood was gushing out of his hands and it was so horrible. Like Abigail all over again. Only this time he didn't have Lecter to keep it cool and save the day. The blood made his hands sticky and warm. It was nasty. If only…

Hannibal heard a voice calling him amidst the darkness, urgently. But he was too tired and too cold. The voice kept calling and he opened his eyes, not exactly remembering where he was or what had happened. There was too much pain in his stomach and shoulder preventing him from thinking properly.

He saw concerned blue eyes looking at him.

"Will?"

"Yes, yes, it's me!" Will drew a fleeting smile. "We've called help, you'll be fine in no time, don't worry."

But Lecter's dark eyes were closing again, too weary to remain awake.

"No, no, stay with me!"

But he could not. A much as he tried, he couldn't.

"Where is that damned ambulance?"

He asked slightly desperate. He didn't even hear Jack's answer. He was only seeing Hannibal, his confidant, his friend, bleeding out in front of him, eyes closed. He didn't seem to be able to stop the bleeding. And it was all over him now, as he had sat in a pool of it. It was on his pants. It was on his hands. He wanted to yell for that ambulance again. They had no time.

Hannibal could hear something in the background. Maybe it was not all lost. Maybe there was hope yet.

The ambulance came and Will went in it while Jack stayed to wait for the police who would process the crime scene. They asked him things in the ambulance, things he couldn't answer. He only answered one of them.

"Hannibal… his name is Hannibal… Hannibal Lecter."

He spent the rest of the ride looking at his friend with a bit of melancholy. The EMTs were working on him and screaming things. Hannibal didn't wake up again. Will was still bloody. It was not good.

On the hospital they rushed him to surgery to remove the bullets and Will stayed there, unable of deciding what to do with himself. But he had to stay there. Had to. Some hours later they moved Lecter to a room and told Will everything had gone perfectly. It would be all right.

But Hannibal was still unconscious and pale and Will had to stay.

The next day Jack informed they'd found the shooter. It was a local man whose brother had gone missing some days ago. They suspected he had killed him. They would never know it was Hannibal who killed the man's brother and used him for a dinner with guests. Would never imagine that the brother had seen him and started planning his revenge. Because when they had confronted him, the shooter had used his gun on the cops, several times, and the cops had fired back. No there was no one who knew. Again.

Will tried to make sense of why a man with no connections to Dr. Lecter would attack him so viciously. But he had attacked the police, too, hadn't he? Maybe after killing his brother he simply snapped and shot everybody he found on his way. Some people simply couldn't cope. Maybe he killed his brother near Lecter's place and had become paranoid that the doctor knew. Those things happened. But now they would never know.

Hannibal should be awake by now, but he wasn't. He was still sleeping, pale, unmoving. As if some strange force prevented him rom coming back to the land of living. He was still, and silent.

Will stayed in the room waiting for to Hannibal finally wake up.

In his dreams, he was the shooter.

His hands were bloody.

And he smiled amidst the blood.

A/N: Hello again! The movie reference from chapter eight was _Pain is in the mind_ from Christopher Nolan's Inception. It's what Mal tells Arthur just after shooting him, which gave me the inspiration for this. Hope you enjoyed it! I know it's a bit weird. All of it.

Reviews are always lovely ;)


	10. The incident in the stairs (Drugged)

He was in front of Will, chest full of holes, laughing. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was mocking him, laughing at him, watching him with crazed eyes.

"You are like me"

Will tried to shake off the image from his head, but couldn't. It was all he could see. He was on the top of the stairs and advancing towards him.

"You are me!" Hobbs said and Will was getting very angry.

He badly wanted, he needed to get rid of him. Of that evil spirit forever haunting him. Part of him heard another voice, on the background, calling his name worriedly, but he couldn't focus on it. He was focused on this ghost that was making him lose the little sanity he still had. Hobbs was going to pay, he had to pay for all he had done. He had to get rid of this once and for all. If he wanted to be able to think clearly again, he had to. Needed to. He was going to punch all his fears and then throw them off the stairs. That was what he would do.

Hannibal kept calling Will's name, concerned. He was looking at him in the strangest way possible. Was it something he said? Something he did? He called Will's name to ask him what was wrong but no answer came. Hannibal was starting to wonder if Will was seeing him at all, or if he was seeing someone else. And then, before he could react, Graham punched him squarely in the face.

He was stunned, but tried to get Will to react.

"Will, don't…"

But while he was still recovering from the punch, his patient, his friend, tried to throw him off the stairs.

Will couldn't make Hannibal lose his balance, at first. But he was determined. Then, as if empowered by some unknown force, he shook Hannibal's shoulders, then punched him again in the stomach and pushed him. And watched him fall. It was as if it wasn't himself, as if he was sleepwalking again. Some other that was not Will was using him to get revenge on Hobbs and all those monsters.

But as Will watched the hole-filled Hobbs fall and hit his head on the floor and land weirdly on his arm, he realized there was something wrong about him. Something odd. And that when he realized he hadn't punched a hallucination, but a real person.

And when he landed on the floor, it wasn't Hobbs anymore. It was Dr. Lecter.

Will's eyes widened and he hurried to the Doctor, scared. Had he really done that? Had he truly thrown his therapist off some stairs? He approached the fallen man, who was trying to get up.

It had been a nasty fall and Hannibal's left arm was hurting like hell. But he couldn't lower his guard yet. Will could even want to shoot him if he thought he was someone else. He put his hand in front of him defensively as he tried to get up. His head hurt, everything hurt but he had to be careful. Focus.

Will got closer and Hannibal looked at him, uncertain.

"Will? Is that you?"

"Oh, god… I just… I don't…. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry, really…. If I had known it was you… I don't even understand what happened, I just wanted to get rid of Hobbs and I… I'm so sorry…."

Hannibal breathed, relieved. Of course, if things had gotten too ugly he could have killed Will, but he really didn't want to. He was glad to hear the old Will back.

"Oh, my… you're bleeding…" There was a nasty gash of Hannibal's forehead that was bleeding onto the left side of his face. "Are you… are you all right?"

"I think I might have damaged my arm, but I'm otherwise all right, yes." He said, composed as usual.

"Oh…god, I…Let me just drive you to a doctor or something, in case there's something broken… and that cut may need some stitches, I just…. Let me help you, ok?"

Will nervously took out a kleenex to try and stop the bleeding on the gash, looking at his therapist very concerned. He was an aggressor. He had caused those injuries on a man had only been there too help. He was becoming one of the monsters he chased. He…

"Will, are you all right?" Said Lecter's deep voice in front of him. Time to focus.

"Yes, yes. Are you? But you already answered that, didn't you? Sorry. Let me take you to a hospital or something. Come on."

Hannibal noticed his patient's erratic behavior. He understood that Will was feeling guilty, confused, sad, not at all in control, regretful. Lots of things. He would let him handle those emotions while he could, knowing that he could make things worse for Will very easily by showing pain, or looking hurt. No. He had to be impassive. He could do that.

Hannibal was no stranger to pain.

While they were on the car, Will kept glancing to where Hannibal was. He had thrown the man some stairs, punched him in the face and in the stomach. His psychiatrist. Because he'd thought Lecter was a dead person he killed. Really, really messed up stuff.

"Will, there is no need to feel guilty." The doctor said, because it had been enough and he couldn't stand those sad doe eyes any longer. "You wouldn't have attacked me if you knew it was me. With time, we'll get to the root of your problem and fix it. Now, if you would be so kind to focus on the road."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry."

He had apologized a thousand times. It didn't feel enough.

Hannibal was starting to feel the effects of his fall. After the adrenaline of rush of being attacked and not knowing if Will would attack again, he'd felt invigorated, challenged. But now the emotion had left and only the soreness remained. And the pain coming from his arm. He could handle it, of course he could, and he would to avoid anymore distressed looks. So he pretended not to be _THAT_ hurt. Maybe he could exploit it in the future. But not right now.

They got to a hospital and it turned out that Hannibal arm was broken. A clean break, but a break nonetheless. The doctors efficiently plastered it and put it on a sling and a stitched the gash on his forehead. They gave him drugs for the pain, even if he said he didn't need them. He was always so careful about what he put in his body, he didn't like the notion of strangers filling him with chemicals. And with good reason.

Will had been on the waiting room for what felt like forever when a doctor appeared and told him that a nurse had messed up the doses and that Dr. Lecter would be a bit drowsy and confused from the effect of painkillers for a while. That there had been some drug-on-drug interaction and he would experience a lot of disorientation before the effects of the excess pills wore off. So Will decided to take him home, feeling more guilty than was all his fault.

When he saw him again, Lecter's left eye had reddened from his punch, and that and the stitches on his cut stained his usually flawless face. There were also the sling and the plastered arm, reminding him of what he had done.

Hannibal was feeling strangely out of it, light-headed, as if he were watching everything from a distance, as if the floor was not stable and if he was floating on it. And things didn't have solid edges, they just blurred into the existence. The next day he would be angry about the negligence, but not now. Now he was just trying not to fall on the ground. _Steady, Hannibal, steady. _There were blue eyes watching him.

"Will!" He chanted happily. "Do you have an appointment?"

Will smiled.

"We're not at your consult, Doctor."

Hannibal looked around, confused.

"Where are we?" Lecter asked Will, almost whispering, as if it was dangerous for other people to hear.

"In the hospital. You broke your arm, remember? I… I threw you off the stairs."

Hannibal was having a hard time processing the simplest things, like what was this place or what time of the day it was. Remembering what had happened earlier in the day seemed almost impossible.

"You did? I thought we were friends, Will."

Will sighed.

"Let me take you home, ok?"

Then Hannibal seemed to have a revelation.

"I know you. You are a patient of mine, aren't you?"

It would be a long night.

Before he finally fell asleep on his bed, Will heard much nonsense coming from the Doctor, something that seemed impossible in the man. Sometimes, he spoke in French. ("_Ssssh, c'est un secret!")._ Sometimes he spoke he spoke in a language Will didn't understand, of perhaps it was just gibberish. Another time Hannibal simply started giggling for no apparent reason. Another time he told Will he had beautiful fingers, but that he was going to let him have them and keep them. And then he giggled, again.

The world was nice, if slightly blurry. Hannibal didn't understand why Will was there, or how he arrived home but he didn't care. He went to sleep with a smile.

When he woke up the next day he was feeling much worse. His face hurt, his body hurt from the fall and he couldn't move his arm. He opened his eyes and so his bedroom. Now, he remembered everything. The incident in the stairs. Will's guilt. His own pain. The hospital. Oh, how was he going to complain.

"You feeling better?"

Will was still there, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Hannibal tried to become a relatively functional person. His movements were limited by the cast, he was bruised all over but at least he had regained his senses.

"Yes, thank you."

"You had me a bit worried, those meds really did a number on you."

"I am sorry I worried you, then."

Back to the old elegant Doctor Lecter.

Will explained him the different meds the doctor had given for him, even if Hannibal wasn't sure he would take them after that incident. They would talk about the hallucination and the feelings it created another day.

But before he left Will had to ask something.

"Yesterday night, you kept saying _Labanakt, mylimasis. _I'm assuming it's in your mother tongue, but… what does it mean?"

Hannibal's eyes widened for a moment.

"It is my mother tongue, I was not aware that I had used it. It means "it hurts"... I guess I still felt pain through those layers of painkillers."

A cover story as good as any.

"Makes sense. Well, get better, Dr. Lecter. I'm sorry, again, for what happened yesterday."

"No need for apologies, Will."

Hannibal was glad Will had believed it and hoped he wouldn't ask about that line in Lithuanian again.

It would stain his impassive reputation very much if Will ever learned he had said _Good night, sweetheart _over and over again.

Damned drugs.

A/N: Did anybody like this chapter?

Reviews brighten the day ;)

Hope you're all having a lovely summer.


	11. Chicken Pox

He thought he was safe, but he wasn't.

Mrs. Dawson had been a patient of his for many years, and he had a problem to go on his appointment of the next week. Her youngest son was recovering from chicken pox, and while he was not in pain anymore, he was still contagious, so he could not go to school. Their usual nanny had an exam so he couldn't be at Mrs. Dawson place on time. Nevertheless, she had told Mrs. Dawson that she could make it to Baltimore ten minutes later after the start of the session. Of course, the session could start ten minutes later, but the lady had told him that if he let the child in with some headphones and a video game for those ten minutes, he would surely be no bother. Hannibal knew the kid, he was quiet and well-behaved. He wouldn't listen to a word they were saying. And it would only for ten minutes, five if the nanny hurried a bit.

More as a kindness to an old client than anything else, Hannibal accepted. The little was indeed quiet and spent those ten minutes looking at the small screen, without paying any attention to his surroundings. At the expected time, the nanny arrived at took him away after apologizing. It had only been ten minutes.

Ten minutes of doom.

Hannibal didn't know how much damage those ten minutes would cause. How intensely he was going to regret letting that kid anywhere near him.

A couple of days later, he started feeling bad. His muscles ached, all over his body. How odd. He was also feeling a sudden loss of appetite and even the most succulent dishes made him slightly nauseous. Truth be told, he was feeling nauseous most of the time. Nothing too serious, just a feeling of nausea accompanied by a nasty headache. But he had headaches before. It was nothing he couldn't handle.

It was on a dinner with Jack Crawford that he understood where all this was coming from.

"You're not eating, Doctor?" Crawford had asked. "This pork is truly delicious."

"I fear I'm not feeling hungry today, as inviting as the dinner may be."

"Now that's unusual. With the way you usually enjoy food… Watch yourself there, Doctor, you may be coming down with something."

And that's when it hit him.

Nausea. Loss of appetite. Muscle ache. All symptoms that preceded chicken pox in adults.

But that couldn't be, could it?

Of course, he thought he had passed it. He remembered being very sick as a child, before his parents were killed, and being isolated on account of being contagious. He had assumed it was chicken pox… but he couldn't ask his parents to be sure, now could he? But it was obviously something else, and that kid had infected him. He was in for a nightmare.

As a doctor, Hannibal knew all the statistics, all the data. How this illness was most severe in male adults. The many complications it could have. The graveness of the symptoms. But, as a doctor, he also knew what to do to prepare himself. He bought the advised medication to decrease his symptoms, the lotions, cut his nails. He thought he was prepared. He wasn't.

It was going to be hell.

A couple of days later, his headache got worse and the rash made his appearance. Millions of red marks marring his perfect skin. And they were everywhere, in his legs, stomach, chest, even in his face and neck. And they itched so much. But Hannibal knew better than to scratch, much as he wanted to. Sometimes he wished he didn't know better.

He wore the most comfortable clothes he found and tried to think of something that was not the itching. Tried to read. But his head hurt and he was in pain and he looked terrible. He even covered some of the mirrors to avoid seeing that terrible reflection. That couldn't be him.

He felt so-so bad.

Terribly bad.

One evening, while he was on the couch battling a headache the phone rang. It was Will.

Will was grateful that the time of the week when he had therapy had arrived, because he was feeling quite confused. With himself. And others. And Hannibal had a way of putting things in order, even invisible things like his mind problems; that was exactly what he needed. But when he arrived, the lights of the consult were off and it was empty. So he called the psychiatrist.

"Dr. Lecter? I'm at the consult and there's no one here."

"Will, I told you a few days ago that our session was cancelled, remember? I fear I have fallen a bit ill."

Oh, now he remembered.

"Oh, yeah, sorry… I forgot." He sighed. "Can't I come over for a bit? I made all the way here… If you're not contagious, of course."

"That depends on whether you passed it as a child or not." Hannibal said tiredly.

"Chicken pox?"

"Indeed."

"I'm coming over."

"Will…"

"You said your kitchen was always open to friends, didn't you?"

Hannibal reluctantly accepted.

Will remembered having chicken pox as a kid. How I hurt, how it itched. Being alone for all those hours while his father worked, in a small room. Ill and alone. How slowly the time passed and how much he itched. How his face itched, and his chest and everything. And he couldn't talk with people because he was contagious. Not his fondest memories.

When Hannibal opened his door Will almost gasped. He had never seen the doctor looking so terrible. He still had his posture (that ballet dancer posture he had, always so stiff. That a frequent sloucher like him so envied) but the rest was off. Like the eyes, usually so flawless and sharp, that were now red and shiny. There were red angry spots crossing his face, even if some were covered the therapist's hair, which hung messier than ever. Not to mention the baggy clothes he was wearing: a gray tee that read "12th convention of psychiatrists of Maine" and sweatpants that, while obviously expensive, appeared to be quite old.

"Wow, you look awful." Will said before he could stop himself.

"Why, thank you for the compliment, Will."

_Just what I needed, _Hannibal thought with a tinge of sadness.

"Sorry. I just… you didn't sound so bad on the phone."

"Well, I do feel so bad. Please, come in."

The house was as perfect as expected. No sign of its owner distress.

"I fear I won't be of much help today, Will."

Hannibal admitted. His head hurt, he felt tired and wrong and his whole being itched.

"Forget about that. I could keep you some company… do you have any cards? It may distract you a bit from the itching."

"That is a lovely idea."

They played cards for a while. It was nice and easy, comfortable, companionable. Will called Alana to go and feed his dogs while he was away and decided to stay for a while, to help out Hannibal. Lecter declined the help at first, saying that he didn't want to be a bother, but Will insisted. He slept in one of the guest rooms, hoping not to soak in sweat those elegant sheets.

The next day Hannibal woke up with a very high fever, and Will understood why doctors warned that chicken pox could be very dangerous in adults. He remembered reading somewhere that %75 of chicken pox related deaths on the UK had been on adults. Which was kind of scary. Hannibal was sweaty, in a lot of pain and he itched all over. Will applied cold towels to the forehead and the neck of the doctor, who seemed very out of it. Sometimes he called his name. Sometimes he called names of unknown people. Taking his role of caretaker very seriously, Will even prepared some soup and bought some paracetamol for the doctor-become-patient.

The meds did some considerable work, and that evening Hannibal was able to get out of bed and go to the living room. Will went to take a shower and when he came back his eyes widened at the sight Hannibal shirtless. He understood it when he saw the calming lotion next to him.

"I trust that you had a pleasant shower, Will." The doctor told him with a small smile. Hannibal looked at least ten years younger, with the messy hair in his face, the sweatpants and the spots on his face.

"Yes, thank you."

Hannibal looked at Will as in doubt.

"This is slightly embarrassing… Could you apply the gel on my back, if it's not too much of a bother?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, no problem."

Will did so, gently, carefully, trying not to hurt the man in any way. The whole moment was strangely intimate.

When he went to wash his hands, Will noticed the covered mirror on the bathroom.

"What's going on with the mirrors?"

"Like you noted the first day, I look awful. I was trying to ignore that fact."

He looked awful, he felt awful, and he wanted to scratch himself but couldn't. And this had been going on for far too long. He was tired and ill and his head hurt oh-so-very-much. Hannibal looked like shit, seemed to be on the verge of tears even, and Will did was anybody else would do when a friend was hurting and sad. He gave him an awkward but sweet hug.

Oh, if ever he had to kill Will, Hannibal was going to be very very sorry. He made a mental note to try and not kill him, even if things got ugly.

"Don't worry, Dr. Lecter, you still look better than me in my best clothes day. Now, would you like some more of that awesome soup I made?"

The soup wasn't awesome, not by a long shot, but Hannibal gladly accepted it. The next day, Lecter got much worse and Will was worried that he might develop pneumonia or another complication like that. He spent all day near the bed, giving Hannibal water when he needed it, trying to decrease the fever. In the evening Hannibal started crying silent tears in his sleep and Will got very worried. Then he realized the older man was having a nightmare and tried to wake him. He comforted him when he woke. That's what friends are for.

Hannibal started getting better after that night, and Will left a couple of days later, not without hearing Hannibal thank him in many ways.

"I honestly don't know how to thank you, Will. You have been too kind."

"Hey, your illness distracted me from the monsters and my own instability. So I guess we're both winners, right?"

"Let me invite to dinner, friday night. It will be the most lavish dinner you've ever seen."

"I look forward to it."

And so they said goodbye.

Will spent all the way back home smiling, feeling ridiculously proud of himself.

A/N: Credit for the idea goes to Gerfan who suggested a chicken poxed Hannibal with a caring Will nursing him back to health. Hope it lived up to expectations, dear! I'll try to make all requests, with time, but alternating them with my own ideas. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Do tell me your thoughts on this! I love all your beautiful feedback )


	12. Hypothermia

Hannibal followed Will as he always did. Fearing the young man could get lost, he continued to walk to the woods behind him, on that snowy freezing day. Hannibal had no idea where he was going, but he followed. He had the strangest feeling that Will didn't know either, why he was or where he was walking. Well, they would see where this led them. But Will had made so many changes, had changed directions so many times, walked so much that Hannibal lost himself too. That was not good.

He didn't know where he was, he didn't know where things started and ended and Will was moving faster than ever. And then, suddenly, he steeped on something that was not quite solid, that was not the ground. But he stepped on it as if it was, and the ground broke below his feet and he fell. A frozen lake. And he had fallen before he had time to think.

At first he felt only surprise, shock at the sudden cold. Then it hit him, like a hard slap on the face or a hard slap just anywhere. The change of temperature reached his body and the cold filled his whole being. The cold attacked his body like a disease. He felt like screaming but didn't.

No, there was no time to freak out - every second was precious. He had to think fast and act even faster if he wanted to get out of there. If he didn't react, the ice in top of him would form again, trapping him in an icy grave. So he tried to sum up and up, and up. But was proving ridiculously difficult, his clothes were weighing him down and it was so cold it was making it difficult to move. It was just so cold. So so cold. And the surface was so far. And he couldn't breather.

Knowing he was fighting for his life, Hannibal let go of his coat to get rid of the weight and went up. But it was already too late and a thin layer of ice had formed, leaving him trapped. He tried to break it, but couldn't. Every second was agony. Fortunately, there was someone trying to break the ice on the other side, too.

Will had been quite far, but he had seen what had happened. Hannibal stepping on the lake, the ice breaking, the doctor suddenly disappearing. He went there as fast as he could, careful not to break the ice. And he arrived to the site he found with horror that the ice was forming above Doctor Lecter. He tried to break it with panic, failing at the start until with one mighty footstep the ice broke, finally. Hannibal's head resurfaced and he took one long breath.

He had made it. It could seem unbelievable, impossible, but he was alive, still alive. He was not going to die in the ice. Will offered him a hand and h accepted, getting out of the water for once and all. Getting out of the water, but not of the cold. Because when he came out of the water, the cold remained attached to him like a skin, like his own blood. The cold stayed, it had gotten inside of him. He was so, so cold. The snow was heavier now, with only made the atmosphere colder.

Moving into the woods again and away from the lake, Will asked:

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, just slightly...cold." His teeth were chattering and he was just so, so cold.

Not knowing exactly what to do, Will took out his woollen hat and offered it to Hannibal.

"Maybe you can dry yourself a bit with this." He offered.

Hannibal took it gladly and dried his face and neck as best as he could with those shivering hands. He was losing control, giving himself to the cold.

"Tha- thank you, Will." He said through chattering teeth. So undignified.

"We should go back, get you somewhere warm."

Fortunately, Will seemed to know where they were going. Hannibal breathed and he could almost feel the breath freezing as it came into contact with the snow outside. It was just so incredibly cold and his clothes were drenched. He shivered and then again. Hannibal couldn't think properly.

Will noted how the dunk in the water had damaged the doctor, and was getting worried. Yes, he thought he knew the way and it was obvious that they had to get somewhere warm, and fast. The snow was only getting worse and Doctor Lecter was shivering almost uncontrollably.

Hannibal had never felt so cold in his life. He was so terribly cold that it hurt, positively, literally. His hands hurt, and they wouldn't get warmer. His eyes, his face, his whole being was hurting because it was fighting the cold and the cold was winning. He shivered. His teeth made an ugly sound. This was so far from his usual elegant control. And he had lost a very good coat, to top it all.

After some minutes, Will admitted he was a bit lost.

"You wouldn't happen to have a flare gun with you, right?" He said, trying to lighten up the mood.

But Hannibal's mood, like the rest of him, was frozen. There was only the cold. Only the cold. Will looked at him with a worried expression. Without much thinking he put his warm hands on Hannibal's freezing ones.

"Is this better?"

"So- somehat, yes."

But it was not working fast enough.

"Embrace me." Will said, out of the blue.

"Wh-what?"

"The best way to fight hypothermia is body heat, I-I know that."

And so they hugged, while the good Doctor still shivered and held Will as if fighting for dear life. Trying to battle out th cold, with all his strength. They had snowflakes in their hair.  
That's how Alana found them, a short while later. Lost in a deep embrace, with snow on their clothes. Dr. Lecter's clothes seemed wet, too and he appeared to have lost his coat. It was a beautiful sight in its own way. She smiled.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Crawford is looking for you guys. We thought we lost you." Alana said.

The two men ended the embrace and looked at the newcomer.

"You almost did."

Hannibal had indeed developed a mild nut persistent hypothermia and didn't recover until the next day, with the help of electric blankets, warm cocoa and a long shower that had started warm but ended up scolding.

On their next session, the incident was brought up with Hannibal thanking Will for his speedy action.

"It's me who has to thank you, Doctor."

For once, Hannibal was confused.

"I was lost and you were the only one who came after me. It could have easily been me, who fell in the ice and nobody would have seen it. Thank you for coming with me."

"Thank you for allowing my presence."

They smiled, changing the subject from the cold ice.

Even if he pretended to not have been affected, Hannibal had to admit it was a while until he felt at ease eating a popsicle again. He had indulged in them, every once in a while, as a guilty pleasure. But now...

Too many unpleasant memories, trapped in the ice.

A/N: Weirdness is weird.

Hoping to hear from you, dear readers and reviewers!


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